The Penthouse

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.

Ninety-ninth floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. The city spread out below like a map made of light.

"Marcus" stepped out. Stopped. Stared.

His mouth fell open slightly, just for a second. Then he caught himself and closed it.

But I'd seen it. That moment of pure awe.

Marcus had been here before. Six months ago, for the contract signing. He'd walked through like he owned the place. Barely looked at anything. He complained that the furniture was too modern for his taste.

This man looked like he'd stepped into a museum.

My phone rang. I answered.

"Cross."

"Sir, it's Wagner. Berlin factory. Fire's contained but we have three in the hospital. One critical."

I turned away from "Marcus." Walked toward the windows. "How did it start?"

"Electrical fault. Old wiring. We'd flagged it for replacement next month."

"Next month." My jaw clenched. "Get me on the next flight out. And I want the maintenance records on my desk before I land."

"Yes, sir."

I stayed on the phone. Coordinating. Planning. Trying not to think about the fact that someone might die because I'd delayed a repair to save money.

Behind me, I could hear "Marcus" moving. Soft footsteps on the hardwood.

I turned slightly. Watched him without making it obvious.

He walked slowly through the space. One hand trailing along the back of the couch. Fingertips barely touching the marble countertop in the kitchen.

Like he was afraid to leave marks. Or maybe like he was trying to memorize the feel of everything.

Marcus had grabbed things. Picked them up without asking. Left rings on the coffee table from his drink.

This man touched everything as if it were precious.

He stopped in front of the painting.

Small. Monet. Water Lilies. My mother's favorite. The only thing in this whole place that meant something to me beyond its price tag.

"Marcus" stood there. Just staring at it.

His head tilted slightly. His lips parted. His whole body went still.

I'd seen that look before. In galleries. Museums. People who actually understood art. Who saw something beyond paint on canvas.

Marcus had walked past that painting six months ago without even glancing at it.

This man looked like he was seeing God.

I ended the call. He didn't notice. Too absorbed in the painting.

I walked over. Stood beside him.

He startled. Stepped back quickly.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to... I was just looking."

"It's fine. It's yours too now. Technically."

He looked at the painting again. His expression is soft. Almost hungry.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly. "The way he captures light on water. Like it's moving. Like you could touch it and your fingers would come away wet."

My chest tightened.

That's exactly what my mother used to say.

"You know Monet," I said.

"I..." He caught himself. Shut down. "I mean. Everyone knows Monet."

"Marcus told me once that impressionism was garbage. Said it looked like someone sneezed paint onto a canvas."

His face went pale. "I... I was wrong. It's not garbage."

"People don't usually change their entire opinion on art."

"Maybe I'm growing. Maturing." His voice was too high. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "You know. Marriage changes people."

Liar.

But I didn't call him on it. Not yet.

My phone rang again. "I have to take this."

He nodded. Moved away from the painting. Toward the windows.

Another call from Berlin. I needed more details to handle. Names of the injured workers. Families to contact. Lawyers to notify.

I watched "Marcus" while I talked.

He stood at the windows. Pressed his forehead against the glass. His breath fogged it slightly.

His shoulders were shaking.

Crying? Or just scared?

I ended the call. Walked over to him.

"I have to fly to Berlin tonight. Emergency."

He turned. His eyes were red. But dry.

"Tonight? But we just..." He stopped. Swallowed. "Right. Of course. Business."

Relief flashed across his face. Fast. But unmistakable.

He was relieved I was leaving.

Which should have insulted me. Instead, it made me more curious.

Why would Marcus be relieved to avoid his wedding night? He'd slept with half of Manhattan according to the rumors.

Unless this wasn't Marcus.

Unless this was someone who'd never...

No. That was impossible.

"The master suite is through there." I pointed to the hallway. "Make yourself... comfortable."

Awkward. This was so awkward.

Were we supposed to kiss? Say goodnight like a normal married couple?

But nothing about this was normal.

I settled for putting my hand on his shoulder. Meant it to be reassuring.

He tensed. Every muscle went rigid under my palm.

Like my touch hurt him. Or scared him.

I let go.

"I'll be back in three days. Victoria will handle anything you need. Food, clothes, whatever."

"Three days." He nodded. Too quickly. "That's fine. Take your time. Handle the emergency."

"There's a guest room if you'd prefer. Down the hall."

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"Really."

"Thank you." The relief in his voice was painful.

My phone rang again. Germany.

"I need to go."

"Safe flight."

I grabbed my bag from the closet. Already packed. I always kept one ready.

Habit from years of emergency business trips.

At the door, I stopped. Turned back.

"Marcus?"

He looked at me. Those gray-green eyes were full of something I couldn't name.

"We'll figure this out," I said.

Figure what out, I wasn't sure. The marriage? The business? The fact that I was almost certain he wasn't who he claimed to be?

All of it, maybe.

"Okay," he whispered.

I left. Got in the elevator. The doors started to close.

Then I remembered. I'd forgotten my tablet. The one with the maintenance records I needed.

I stopped the doors. Got out.

Walked back to the penthouse door.

It was still open. Just a crack.

I was about to push it open when I saw him.

"Marcus." Or whoever he really was.

He'd collapsed against the door. Slid down to the floor. His knees pulled up to his chest. His head in his hands.

His whole body shook. Silent sobs that made his shoulders heave.

He looked destroyed. Terrified. Utterly lost.

Nothing like the arrogant man who'd shown up to contract negotiations in a designer suit and an attitude.

Nothing like Marcus Laurent at all.

I stood there. Watching him fall apart.

And something in my chest shifted.

This wasn't some con artist. Wasn't some gold digger trying to steal my money?

This was someone who'd been forced into something they didn't want. Someone who was barely holding it together.

Someone who needed help.

I should confront him. Demand answers. Call the whole thing off.

Instead, I reached for my phone. Sent a text to Victoria.

*Keep an eye on him. But be gentle. Something's wrong. I don't know what yet.*

Her response came immediately.

*Already on it. He's not what we expected.*

*No. He's not.*

I looked at "Marcus" one more time. Still huddled on the floor. Still crying.

Then I got back in the elevator.

I'd figure this out when I got back from Berlin.

But one thing was certain.

The man I'd married wasn't Marcus Laurent.

And whoever he was, he was in trouble.